Come Away to the Water, Episode 1
by SaintAugustana
Summary: Adaptation of Telltale's The Walking Dead Season 2 with an OC thrown in to join Clementine on her journey. But Scout, a gifted young tracker with a old cynic's mind, has a dark past of her own, and when the group comes face-to-face with William Carver, she'll have to choose a path. [Warnings for possible violence/corporal punishment in later episodes.]
1. Prologue

**Come Away to the Water, **a_ Telltale Games: The Walking Dead Season 2_ fanfic by SaintA

**Author's Note: I'm writing this based on a combination of what I remember ****from the script of the Telltale video game version of The Walking Dead [Season 2] and what I have replayed. Obviously, the vast majority of this is hereby unoriginal work, and I claim no credit for it. The only original aspect of this story is my OC Scout. **

**If you haven't played the game, don't read this as it won't make sense. Unless you're just that dedicated a fan of mine, in which case, thanks. You're awesome. **

**So to put this in the perspective of live-action characters, picture Clementine as played by Amandla Stenberg. Scout is my usual prototypical tomboy. Or picture it however you want. Whatever floats your boat. **

**Last note: for my own purposes some lines have been added or omitted. Again, this is largely an unoriginal work [up until around Episode 3]. Episodes will be posted as separate stories. This is Episode 1.**

**Prologue**

It wasn't as if I'd known Clementine since the beginning. Like her I was swept up in the maddening storm of the apocalypse and washed out into the barren world. Just so happened that the tide that pulled us in had us both wrapped up in its tendrils.

I was running with another girl whose name I can't even remember. She was a scavenger, like me, and so we had latched onto each other the way desperate people do. I let her lead us into abandoned Quickie Marts and grocery stores, barely avoiding starvation by riding her coattails, knowing that eventually her nervous cockiness would get her killed but learning everything I could from her. So when we happened upon another small group of people making a pit stop in the restroom of a gas station, I stood watch as she stalked a girl about my age into the restroom, thinking that if only one of them came out, I wouldn't care either way which one.

But it was Clementine. It would always be Clementine. Rising up from the ashes like the fucking phoenix.

I followed her light into the woods, where she and her surviving partner hunkered down around the dying fire that would carry us through the bleakest Georgia winter I had ever seen.


	2. Sixteen Months Later

**Episode 1, Chapter 1 – 16 Months Later**

"I miss Lee," Clem hugged herself tighter. I didn't look up, pressing my fingers to the frozen skin beneath the rips in my jeans. It was only the beginning of Autumn, but already the nights were frigid. I tried not to think about the spring and summer that were too short. Beneath only my fraying henley and shabby jacket, I was already feeling Jack Frost's bite.

Christa muttered something discomforting and straightened her back. "Just find a way to keep the fire going until I get back," she ordered half-heartedly, disappearing into the trees.

Clem exhaled deeply, her breath a soft, haunting flurry of white. She stood, pulling the sleeves of her striped blue shirt down over her wrists and moving toward her backpack.

"Do you think we'll make it to Wellington?" I whispered, sliding painfully off the log and approaching her. But she didn't answer. I looked down; she was holding a photo, ripped and bloodstained. I didn't have to ask. I knew it was Lee. She found the lighter next and rose, approaching the campfire. I watched her back as she stooped and set the corner of the photo alight, dropping it into the pile of smoldering logs.

It wasn't enough to reignite the flames. Even now I can't stop thinking about how she burned it for nothing. Nothing was ever enough.

In a sick way, I was almost grateful the bandits showed up when they did. Not because we were separated from Christa (despite her constant, catching depressive episodes), but because it was a change of pace, for once. Clementine didn't think twice before going after her. I wanted to run. At least it _wasn't_ yet winter. The fall into the river probably would have killed us. Couple of human popsicles. Happy Thanksgiving, walkers.


	3. Alone

**Chapter 2 – Alone**

"Scout. Scout!"

I don't think I was unconscious. I remembered the river, how the cold had numbed me instantly, right down to the bones, and how we'd collided with rocks like balls in a ping-pong machine. I raised my head from the gritty dirt, feeling more exhausted than I'd felt in a long time. Clem came into focus, kneeling over me. She extended a hand. "Are you alright?"

I took it and we stood. "Yeah. Ow-" I touched my head, feeling a lump above my ear. Blood trickled down. "Egh. Maybe not."

"Let me see," she turned my head to the side. "It's all dark and sticky," she noted. "I think that means it's getting better."

I nodded. "What about you?"

"My leg's cut, but it's alright. Dark and sticky."

It felt like a good place to exchange encouraging smiles, like we used to when we came out of scrapes with all our limbs still attached. But we didn't, instead taking in our surroundings. It was still chilly, but the winter edge was gone from the wind. No way to tell how long we'd been out: it was the kind of foggy that clouded what hour of the day it actually was. Morning. Noon. Evening. The beach we'd been washed upon was narrow and surrounded by craggy rocks. Nodding to each other, we started forward, absent all our gear and sense of direction. I fingered my waistband, discomforted that my buck knife wasn't still attached to my belt. Not that I was attached to the knife. I just hadn't had time to steal a spare.

"Christa!" Clem shouted. I grabbed her arm, inclining my head toward another section of the river.

The boat we found was a dead end.

We reached a dock, busted up. There was no stairway. Maybe someone had tried to salvage the wood. It wasn't rotting, but I didn't say anything as Clem clambered up and I followed suit. Even less to see up here. Couple of expired walkers, one with a signpost right through his goddamn head. A grave, marked with a pitiful makeshift cross. Clem hovered over it for a moment, shoulders slumped, green eyes glassy. Even feeling nothing feels like something. If I wasn't so afraid, I would have laughed at the sign warning us about dangerous animals living in the woods.


	4. Abandoned Camp

**Chapter 3 – Abandoned Camp**

We trudged through the woods in silence, ambling along the lonesome path. My clothes were heavy despite that they were only damp, and so I had pulled off my jacket and was grateful for the arid warmth of the valley in which we'd found ourselves. We approached a fork in the path and paused, looking left and right. Clem started right.

"Clementine, wait."

She turned to me and I could see the gray around her eyes, the absence of color in her face. How old was she now? Twelve? Fourteen? I had stopped thinking of my own age until I met her and was reminded how young, too, I was. Maybe older than her. Maybe younger. I'd honestly lost track.

"We have to find Christa," she entreated, the puerile desperation back in her voice.

"We need to find _shelter_," I countered weakly. "At least for tonight."

Suddenly, there was a rustling in the grass a few yards away, giving us both anxious pause.

"I lost my knife," I whispered, stepping forward and grabbing a hearty stick from the ground, raising it defensively. The rustling came closer, and I prepared to crack the stray walker across the head.

"A dog," Clementine was almost smiling. Sure enough, the thing emerged headfirst from the undergrowth. Some kind of shepherd mix, all tan with a light muzzle and hazel eyes. A faded blue collar hung limply from its neck and its tongue limply from its mouth. I lowered the stick. Clementine approached it, eliciting a growl from the mutt and making me jump back. But she spoke softly to it in words I couldn't make out, and the dog let her close in, taking his collar in her perpetually gentle hands.

"His name is Sam."

Sam looked me in the eyes and scurried out from the grass, down the left fork.

"Wait! Where are you going, boy?" Clem enjoined. I put a hand on her arm, gesturing toward a thicket of trees a few yards away. A couple walkers, probably drawn by our yelling for Christa.

"Let's follow the dog," I whispered. "Maybe there are people nearby."

"What if it's the bandits?"

"Whoever it is, let's hope they have food."

The camp was ravaged. An old minivan, some vintage baby blue Volkswagen, sat near the edge of the site, the windows all busted and the paint browning. A tent sat pitifully opposite, clearly already run over by local wildlife and scavengers. Sam was scuffling about, and while Clem initiated a brief, unyielding search for any human life, I began the hunt for food, digging through a trash can, boxes, and the contents of the van. Nothing.

I slid back out onto the hard earth. In the grass near my feet there was a yellow frisbee. Venturing a smile, I picked it up, and Sam's eyes were on me immediately. Feeling stupid, but somehow compelled, I tossed it across the campsite. He chased after it, snatching it out of the air and trotting back to me. Clem saw and looked over her shoulder, smiling. I took it from Sam's mouth and tossed it again. This time, Clem caught it.

Was this what normal felt like?

She tossed it. It flew past me and into the bushes. Sam chased it, disappearing for a moment behind a tree. I approached Clementine. "Find anything?"

"No," her smile faded. Just then, Sam started to bark.


	5. Finding Food

**Chapter 4 – Finding Food**

We stared at the walker, unfeeling. More concerned with the quality of the rope that lashed it to the tree than its persistent lunging. It's left arm was moving up and down as it moaned robotically, trying to grab us with its bony fingers.

"Maybe he was bitten and they left him," I offered, knowing that no matter how much she hid it, how amazingly efficient Clem was at sparring walkers, she was always bothered anew when she laid eyes on one. She said nothing, and I shut my mouth. No use discussing it. A few seconds passed in silence. I cocked my head. "Look," I pointed to something red sticking out of the walker's limp arm. "Is that a knife?"

"Looks like it."

"Alright, watch out." I stepped forward, raising my stick and steadying myself. Raising it above my head I whacked the walker across his cranium. He moaned and snarled louder, and I whacked him again. And again. On the fourth, a shower of graying body fluids erupted from his skull and stained the trunk of the tree. But he was dead. Again. Clem reached forward and grabbed the knife, wiping the blade clean on her jeans.

It was the first bone we'd been thrown in a while, and though a knife was nothing to boast about, it felt good. And it was only getting better. A secondary sweep of the camp yielded us one glorious can of baked beans. Our grins were a mile wide. My cheeks hurt, the sensation was so foreign. We quickly grabbed seats on a fallen log like we were sliding into our chairs at the fast food buffet. I set my jacket beside me. Clem grabbed the knife and began to open the can. We dipped our dirty fingers inside and swallowed a mouthful.

Sam started to whimper. Clem looked at me.

"Maybe we should give him some," I shrugged, thinking we couldn't have too much of a good thing. "He _did_ lead us here."

"You'd have found this camp," she complimented. "You're a really good tracker. Besides, there's barely enough for one, let alone three of us."

"You're right," I replied, accepting another mouthful as she tilted the can toward me.

But there's something about desperation that changes you, makes you forget all at once that the world is both warm and cold, predictable and spontaneous, kind... and evil. We were desperate. But so was Sam. And when he lunged at Clem, grabbing her arm in his powerful jaws, I wondered myself if he didn't have the right idea.

"Clem!" I shouted, reeling backward off the log as Sam turned on me, snarling and barking. The can fell to the ground, beans spilling into the dirt. Sam lapped them up in a heartbeat, lunging again and catching me this time. I rolled to my stomach, curling into the fetal position, crying out as he attacked my shoulders. I felt the warmth of my own blood soaking my t-shirt.

Clementine rushed him, pulling him off of me and pushing him onto the ground. He scrambled for footing and advanced on her. Acting quickly, I grabbed the knife and stabbed Sam in the fleshy part of his gut. He squealed horribly and Clem kicked him off. He tumbled backward over the log and we heard another wild yelp, followed by the sound of whimpering.

I helped Clem to her feet. She clutched her arm, I my shoulder. Slowly we stepped forward. Near the porch of the tent, Sam lay, impaled in three places by displaced tent poles. He struggled futilely, his legs kicking in all directions, cries forcing their way out of his throat. I could see the whites of his eyes as they lolled back into his skull.

I looked down at the knife in my hand, and then at Clem, whose eyes were rimmed with tears.

"I can't," I whispered, my grip tightening around the knife. Breathing shallowly, Clem approached my side, taking my fist in her hands and pulling me forward until we were standing over Sam. I cupped my free hand over hers and we looked each other in the eyes. She nodded and we both crouched down at once, jamming the knife into the soft spot beneath Sam's right ear. His chest sagged, the ribs showing themselves one by one, and his eyes fluttered shut. But in my head the whimpering never stopped.


	6. New Faces

**Chapter 5 – New Faces**

We fled the camp, beans and dog forgotten. I tried not to think about how it would have been worth butchering Sam for his meat. Or how it may not have been worth it.

It grew dark quickly now. As we stumbled down the path the walkers became silhouettes against the fading light. Clementine stumbled, falling against a large boulder, her breathing heavy and labored. I leaned down with her, staring at her arm. Blood seeped through the faded blue fabric of her sleeve. Clem was shuddering, her eyes tightly shut, and she whimpered as tears came freely now. My shoulder throbbed and I reeled forward, collapsing against the boulder on my bloody palm. Sweat coated my skin, making me hot and dazed. Little sparks of red and orange light danced before my eyes, and my head pounded.

The walkers were so close I could hear them breathing. As I began to drift I felt a hand grab my forearm. Blearily I opened my eyes and let Clem pull me to my feet. I tried to run but my head was swimming. I could feel the warmth of my precious blood across my back and the respective arm felt limp, then I realized Clem wasn't behind me. I hobbled back, lifting her arm over my shoulders. She leaned into me, but again we collapsed.

And again we awoke, to that same groaning as always.

"Walkers," I whispered. I stood, dragging Clem up. Adrenaline gave me a burst of energy, but only a burst, stolen when a walker caught up, tripped, and collapsed upon us, dragging Clem and I down. I cried out as my shoulder hit the dirt. My vision blurred. Then I heard a faint _shink_ and something heavy hitting the earth. More walkers approached, but each fell, shot by arrows and cut by swords.

"I'm out! Grab one and let's go!" someone yelled. I knew they were right there but my world was black, like I was in a cave and they were shouting from miles away. Just an echo. Barely.

My head bobbed against someone's chest. I was running. No, he was running. I was limp. Useless. Pathetic. I didn't lose consciousness, but my arm beneath the afflicted shoulder grew numb, my fingers tingling unpleasantly before the nerves went silent and my head lolled back.


	7. Interrogation

**Chapter 6 – Interrogation**

"Hey. Hey, kid, you okay?"

"I think she's unconscious."

"No, look, she's movin.'"

"Scout?"

Passing in and out of consciousness isn't a fun game. I awoke blearily. The sky was no darker; not much time had passed. The air was musky and cold, smelled of impending rain. The pine trees shifted above me and I turned my gaze sideways, meeting the eyes of a stranger. Other side – Clementine, looking just as worse for wear, in the arms of another stranger.

"Are you okay?" her savior, a middle-aged guy in a ripped brown sweater and sporting a machete across his back, asked my friend.

"I... I can walk," she muttered.

"Oh, yeah? Because you were barely able to crawl away from that lurker back there," he chided breathlessly.

"How about you?" That was someone else.

I looked up lazily, following the sound. Oh, that was for me. I swallowed back the dryness in my throat, nodding. My captor shook his head, and the men pressed on, still carrying us like sacks of flour, helpless little lambs.

"What are you two doing out here?" Green Jacket asked, adjusting me in his arms, making me flinch at the reignited pain in my shoulder.

"Where are the people you were with?" Brown Sweater. "There's no chance you made it this long on your own."

"I don't want them thinkin' we're doin' anything but tryin' to help you." Green Jacket. "Not sure how the group is gonna feel about another mouth to feed."

"We got attacked by some bandits," Clementine spoke. I felt clearer in the head, somehow. Her voice was like a light drawing me in, giving me something to focus on besides the blackness.

"These folks mention what they were after?" Green Jacket.

"They might've just wanted food. We were cooking some...sort of animal."

"Weasel," I muttered, grinning slightly. Clementine's minimal knowledge of hunting and tracking was always a point of fun for me, in good spirits of course. I was the one who'd skinned the weasel. I was proud of that. Wished now I was eating it.

"It speaks," Brown Sweater seemed happy. "They attacked you for a weasel? Damn. That _is_ low." He paused. "Uh, they didn't mention any names, right? They weren't... searching for anybody?"

Green Jacket grunted. Clementine looked at me. I shook my head.

"Well," Brown Sweater brightened, "I'm Luke. This is Pete."

"Hey there," Pete enjoined.

"I'm Clementine." Always the first to warm up to people.

"Scout," I offered, discontented.

"Nice to meet you both. For now, we're gonna take you back to our group, okay?" Luke smiled."We got a doctor with us, and you look like you could use someOH, SHIT!" Luke yelled suddenly, dropping Clementine from his arms like she was a white-hot coal.

"Hey!" I shouted, gathering my good elbow and shoving it into the soft part of Pete's gut. He dropped me, too and I hurried to her side as she cried out.

"What the hell, Luke?" Pete shouted, clutching his gut. I glared at him, crouching over my friend.

"She's... they're... they're both bitten! Fuck, fuck, FUCK! What are we going to do here?" I looked at my shoulder, the stain of blood now evident on Pete's shirt, previously masked by the black fabric of mine. Luke pressed his hands to his face, pacing back and forth.

"No!" Clem shouted "It was a dog!"

"I didn't see any dog, Clementine," Pete looked sideways at Luke, disbelieving.

"Come on, kid," Luke, once amiable, now pointed fingers at us. "Look, we _just_ saw you with those lurkers back there."

"I can't remember the last time I saw a dog," Pete fueled the fire.

"So what do we do now," Luke muttered matter-of-factly.

"Just look at them!" Clem encouraged, which was more than I was doing. "Please."

"Yeah, and have you sink your teeth into Pete's neck? No way."

"_My _neck? Why am I the one?"

"'Cause I don't know a dog bite from a mosquito bite from a lurker bite, man!"

"It's not!" Clem promised.

A few seconds passed in tense silence. I watched the men like a hawk, my muscles raring to bolt.

"Hmmm," Pete folded his arms. "All right, let's see 'em." He advanced, squatting down to our level. I tensed.

"Woah, woah, woah. Hey, watch yourself," Luke warned. I liked him less and less every second. I glared at him. "Hey, don't look at me like that! You two are the ones bit here."

Pete took Clem's arm and pulled back her sleeve. She cringed, and again I saw the wound. The skin was mangled, and covered in so much blood I understood how it could be mistaken for a walker bite, or any kind of bite, really. But I still hated the for not believing us. Pete less for giving it more consideration than Luke. Luke had his back to us like a child refusing to obey his mother and ending up in the corner for it. I put him on my mental shit list.

"See?" Clem whispered through gritted teeth.

"Your turn," Pete gestured to me, his countenance betraying none of his thoughts. Reluctantly I pivoted, sitting down with my back to him. He lifted the edge of my t-shirt. I hissed as the fabric came unstuck from the wound.

"Is it, uh... is it like they say?" Luke looked over his shoulder at us.

"Well, _could_ be a dog. Hard to say." He put my shirt down, and I struggled to turn and face him, holding my wounded arm to my chest. "So where did this 'dog' go? The one that did this?"

"Now what... what does that matter, Pete? Seriously." Luke interrupted, clearly frustrated.

"Because _I _wanna know how believable this story is," he chided.

Clem looked at me. I hung my head, trying to shut out Sam's desperate crying. "We killed it." I heard my voice but it didn't feel like mine. Like the words were already there and I just breathed air and made them audible, visible.

"What? Really?" Luke raised his hands. "A dog shows up and bites you and you just killed it?"

"What would you have done?" Pete challenged.

"I don't know!"

"It attacked us!" I defended.

"Still! You don't..." he faltered. "You don't kill dogs."

Pete shook his head, turning back to us. "Clementine. Scout?"

"Yes?" Clem answered for the both of us.

"You tellin' us the truth? You look me in the eyes when you answer."

We exchanged pensive looks. Clem set her brow and turned back to Pete. "Yes."

"Well, alright. That's good enough for me."

Luke scoffed. "Well, what else was she gonna say?"

"I've got a good bullshit detector, Luke," Pete scolded, helping Clem to her feet, then me. "That's why you can never beat me at poker."

"You don't always beat me at poker."

Pete raised an eyebrow.

"Fine," Luke conceded. "But how can you be sure?"

"Well I'm sure I ain't willing to leave two little girls in the woods to die when we got a doctor with us that can make a call. We can have Carlos take a look at them, first."

"Nick ain't gonna like this. Not with what happened to-"

"You don't have to remind me of that, boy." Pete hardened. The air seemed to still, thicken. It was darker now. How long had we stood here, wasting daylight arguing and losing blood? I nudged Clementine. She nodded to show she was okay.

"Right," Luke deflated some. "Sorry, sir."

Pete softened, patting the younger man's shoulder. "Come on."

We hobbled after, and in the distance a cabin became visible against the fading sunlight. As much as I disliked the situation, I was relieved. The men turned to us. Pete's brow furrowed. "Clementine? Are you alright?"

By the time I turned to look at her, Clementine was on the ground.


	8. Discussion

**Chapter 7 - Discussion**

_Don't you tell me that! Not with what happened!_

_Would someone mind telling me what the fuck is going on?_

_We got this, don't worry._

"Clem..." I whispered, letting my hand hover above her mouth, feeling clammy breath against my palm.

_Like hell you do! Did anyone even think to ask where they came from? For all we know they could be working with Carver! _

_They already told us they were attacked, then bitten by a dog._

"Clementine, wake up," I shook her, laying my ear across her chest. I hated feeling desperate. If it had been anyone else, anyone in my life like before, I would have split, left them lying there in the middle of that group. Instead I was surrounded by strangers, their yelling like tribal chanting, nonsensical and too loud, like I was the boat rocking in the sea and Clem was my anchor.

_What, and you just believed her! You should have put her out of her misery right there!_

Clem stirred, reaching her elbows back to lift herself.

_Dog bite, my ass_.

"We're not working for-" she began, and then a shot rang out. The grass just between Clem and I flew into the air, a clump of dirt. We gasped, separating. I hadn't been paying attention, didn't see that one of the men, another stranger, had raised a rifle. Pete rushed him, snatching the gun.

"Keep your finger off the trigger, boy!" he shouted.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Another voice. Luke's, emerging from the front door of the cabin. "What the fuck?"

"You idiot!" A black woman scolded. "Every lurker for five miles probably heard that!"

"Well," the shooter spoke, "you're the one telling me to fuckin' shoot them!"

"Everybody just calm down for a second!" Another man, also black. I didn't like this at all. Clem and I struggled to our feet, she clutching her arm and me my shoulder.

"Clementine, Scout," Luke rushed up. "You okay?"

"Fuck you!" I shouted. Clem was more civil, as per usual.

"We're not working for anyone..." she breathed painfully. "We don't know what you're talking about. We just need help."

"We got a doctor right here, okay?" Luke comforted. "He'll have a look."He turned to the rest of the group. "Now what the hell is wrong with you people? They're just scared!" I swallowed, feeling as though maybe I'd misjudged Luke.

"We're all scared, Luke," the woman – Rebecca, I think – stepped forward. "Don't act like we're being irrational just because we don't buy this bullshit story."

"No way they survived out here on their own!" The Shooter enjoined. "Why are we even arguing about this?"

Yet another stranger emerged from the house, pacing across the porch and down the steps toward us. In his blue jeans and neatly unbuttoned plaid shirt, he almost looked serene, like he owned the place and was just coming out to tell his neighbors to quiet the hell down. "Let me take a look." He cut through the crowd like a knife through butter, approaching us. Clem looked scared so I stepped between him and her, staring him down. _Try anything, _I dared.

"It's okay," Luke appeased. "He's a doctor."

Eying him up and down I exhaled deeply through my nose, unsatisfied but compliant. We bared our wounds. The Doctor knelt, looking at each with a practiced eye. "Hmm," he began, his voice gravelly, "whatever it was, it got you two good. You," he gestured to me, "have a torn muscle in your deltoid." I believed him, trying and failing to regain some feeling in my fingers.

"This isn't how we do things, man," the Shooter pushed through the crowd, going toe-to-toe with Luke. "When you're bit, you get put down. End of story. I'm not going through this again."

"No one's suggestin' that," Luke countered.

"We could take their arms off," Pete threw in. I turned my head slowly in his direction, flabbergasted. "I know that worked for a cousin down in Ainsworth. We could try that." Shit, he was _serious_. Clem and I exchanged nervous glances.

"It won't do any good. You'll just be makin' it worse for them!" Rebecca scoffed.

"That's crazy," the black guy chimed in. "No one's gonna volunteer to do that!"

"I would," Pete looked at us. "If it meant saving their lives."

"Then what? How would we know it worked?"

"Just let Carlos have a look first!"

"You don't want to do something you're gonna regret," Clementine spoke, startling me off the path of fear I was hurdling down. "Better to be sure, right?" How was she so calm? I envied her.

"C'mon," Pete agreed. "They weigh about as much as a sack of flour." I huffed silently. "We could take them if it comes to that."

"One, maybe," the Shooter shook his head. "I don't want two lurkers runnin' around my house."

The door opened again, and I braced myself. But it was a girl, a little girl, maybe a bit older than Clem, so about my age. She had red-rimmed glasses and a soft blue sweater on. She looked... clean. "Who are they?" she asked, voice soft and small, like a mouse's.

Carlos straightened up. "Sarah. What did I say? Stay inside."

Dismayed, she pulled the door shut. I looked at Clem, brow furrowed. She shrugged, clearly not as caring as me about just how many people we were dealing with. Carlos turned back to us.

"We don't want to be any trouble," Clem continued, ever the polite diplomat. "We just need to stop the bleeding and then we'll go. You'll never see us again. Promise."

"And where exactly would you go?" Carlos inquired skeptically. Great, another round of the third degree.

"None of your fuckin' business," I spat.

"Hey!" Pete snapped, startling me. "We're trying to help you out so you best watch your mouth, little girl."

I swallowed, debating a retort when I noticed Clem staring at me in her peripheral vision, her eyes hard and unyielding. I fell silent, bristling.

"Our friend Christa is out there," she continued.

"Forget it," the Shooter interrupted. He had a _habit _of interrupting. New entry on the shit list. "You won't get five feet."

"Look, I dunno what took a bite outta them, but still, they're just kids." Pete defended us again. I didn't want to take it for granted, but I was grateful. Clem was right. If I'd let my mouth run I might have blown it for us. "Worst case, they turn, and we can deal with it."

Carlos straightened up again, leaving us to rejoin the group. Again they discussed it. Regular people and their need to be absolutely sure. I wanted to laugh. Even in the world before there was no way to be sure of anything, and now that it had gone to shit they wanted that privilege? Clem clutched her arm to her chest. I approached her, making sure she was okay.

"By tomorrow morning, if the fever's set in, we'll know if they're gonna turn," Carlos spoke louder now, trying to ease a discontented group. I looked at the rifle in Pete's hand and heard Clem's voice in my ear. _Don't do anything stupid. We'll be okay. _"In the meantime, we can lock them in the shed."

"What?" I turned. "What about our wounds?"

"They need to get cleaned, and stitched, and bandaged..." Clem pleaded, stepping forward.

"They're in bad shape, Carlos," Luke entreated.

"And we have all that stuff inside the cabin," the black man spoke. "We could probably get by with-"

"Alvin! Please," Rebecca cut him off.

"But yeah," he corrected himself. "We can't do nothin.'" _New entry on the shit list. Alvin, the man without balls. _

"I'm not wasting supplies on a lurker bite," Carlos rationalized. "If it turns out you're telling the truth, I'll clean them and stitch them up for you in the morning."

"But-"

I put a hand on Clem's shoulder, holding her back. Fuck them, I thought. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise. I glanced over at the shed, sitting a few yards away from the house. It was in good shape but looked old, worn in. I could pick a lock as easy as skin a weasel. We'd play it by ear, my style. Of course, I couldn't vocalize any of that at the moment. Clem hung her head, and I felt her fear as mine, only mine was masked by bravado and her's was always genuine, right there on her bloody sleeve.

"I'm sorry," Luke offered. "It's the best we're gonna get." _We_, I thought. Like _he_ had to spend the night in a fucking shed.


	9. Trapped

**Chapter 8 - Trapped**

It could have been worse. Well, it was pretty bad. But once those shed doors had fallen shut behind us and the muffled voices outside faded, I felt more at ease than I had in a while. I scanned the walls quickly, testing for weak spots. The shed seemed secure enough to pass the night, even if that wasn't exactly Plan A. Clem stiffened as I looked at her, leaning weakly against a makeshift work desk, still clutching her arm.

"I can't believe this..." she muttered.

"We're safer out here," I appeased, approaching her. "Were gonna be fine."

She nodded, taking a deep breath and straightening up. I smiled. "Let's see what's in here."

We each took a side, investigating the nooks and crannies of the shed. There was an anchor, ominous and sharp, hanging from the far wall. I tried not to think about my boat/anchor metaphor, and disregarded it. No use to us, too heavy. Turning away, I noticed a hammer on a high shelf.

"Clem," I whispered. "Can you boost me?"

"I... I don't think so," she replied honestly. I pursed my lips, glancing around the room before hurrying to the wall. There was another shelf, folded lower against the wall. I lifted it and clambered atop, careful of my arm, and stood, reaching for the hammer. Just as I pressed my gut to the shelf it collapsed, sending me crashing to the floor.

"Are you alright?" Clem rushed to my side, helping me up.

"Yeah..." I groaned, lifting the broken shelf and bending down to collect the hammer. "Sorry."

"No worries," she smiled weakly. "Not much left in here. I found this in that box over there," she held out the spool of fishing line. "I guess if we have to, we can use this for stitches."

"You still have that knife?" I inquired, seeing the plan coming together.

"Yeah. But we're still no good without a needle."

"What's that?" I inclined my head past her shoulder. She stepped aside and I went to the open tackle box, pushing it aside. At the base of the wall the wood had rotted away and was covered with a couple of precautionary nailed-on boards. I pressed my hands to the highest one. It wouldn't give. It was a piss-poor patch job, though: only two boards, the whole still partially uncovered, the nails sticking out. Standing up I thrust the flat side of the hammer between the board and the wall, ignoring the pain in my shoulder.

"We're getting out of here," I grinned.

"Wait," Clem whispered.

"What?" I looked over my shoulder.

"We can't go. My arm needs stitches and so does your shoulder. You heard the doctor – you have a torn muscle. I can see it!" She sounded desperate, and I knew she was right. Even if I could convince her to come with me, there's no way we'd make it very far, not with the amount of blood we'd lost. We need stitches, and probably a good meal, to get the energy to escape. Which, ironically, made escape impossible.

I sighed, snarling in frustration. I thought for a minute. "Then we need a needle. And bandages. And something to clean the wound with. It'll get infected."

"They have all that inside. We just have to wait until morning."

"We won't last until morning. You said it yourself. Maybe we could... maybe we could get inside. Get what we need and get out of here."

Clem didn't look sure.

"We can do it, Clem," I assured her.

"There's a lot of them, Scout. And that one... Nick... he was about to shoot us!"

"We have to get _out_ of here!" I pleaded. "Something's not right with this place." She didn't reply, and I exhaled deeply, removing the hammer from the wall and setting it on the desk, approaching her. "We can do it. We have to do it."

"You're right," she whispered, raising her head, green eyes blazing. I smiled, extending my hand. She took it, and we locked our palms together tight.


	10. Sneaking

**Chapter 9 - Sneaking**

Outside it was pitch dark and the atmosphere was grim with the promise of rain. The only light came from the cabin windows, a dim yellow glow. Our breath frosted before us and I shuddered as I pulled myself through the hole in the shed and into the damp air. Thunder rolled in the sky.

"They've gotta have stuff for stitches," Clem breathed, more to reassure herself again that this was the best plan we could exact. I could barely see her next to me. Her voice was like that of a ghost, just hovering over your shoulder. But I wasn't looking at her. I stared into the depth of the woods, barely lit by the moon, an eerie fog enveloping the trees. I felt the yearning to run, knowing it wasn't wise.

"Come on," I pulled myself away and we kept low, approaching the cabin. I pulled Clem down into some tall grass just a few yards from the wrap-around porch. I could see two doors, one on the side of the house and the other on the front. The front was probably out of the question, but I didn't like the exposure of the side door, either. Clem followed my lead, and her trust was both a blessing and a curse. Without speaking we rose again and hurried forward. There was a downgrade in the slope of the land before the porch and we crept down alongside the cross-hatch fence covering the underside of the house, circling around to the other side.

We came to section of the fencing that had been boarded up. Unfortunately, this patch job was a little less shoddy. Fortunately, I still had the hammer. I stood watch while Clem removed the nails.

"Hurry," I whispered, spying a walker in the trees, not too far off. She quickly removed the board, revealing a hole. We crawled through, just as the rain began to pour. Ducking painfully we sidled along the underside of the house, freezing when we heard voices.

_House meeting in five minutes_, someone (I think it was Pete) said.

_Great. _

_It won't take long. There's a few things we need to discuss. _

_Great. _

What a happy bunch they were. Even having only known them for a few hours I felt as though I were already irrevocably wound up in their labyrinth of troubles. Whatever those were.

The rainfall masked whatever noise we were making. We followed our path away from the voices and to a beam of light creeping down to the dirt. A crack in the wood flooring? We crouched beneath it. A trap door. Clem reached up, testing it. It didn't give. She tried the hammer, but the angle was wrong and she couldn't get leverage.

"The knife," I opened my palm. She handed it over. I wedged the blade between the lock and the edge and it sprang free.

Waiting for a peal of thunder, we pushed the trapdoor open. It creaked against rusty hinges. I raised myself up, taking a peek. The room was dark and small. A closet, maybe. A saw another sliver of light beneath a closed door.

"I think we're okay," I whispered, crouching back down. "You ready?"

"As ready as I'm gonna get," she replied humorlessly.

"I'll go first."

The voices continued once we were up. I closed the trapdoor behind Clem. She went to the door and listened.

"Can you tell what room they're in?" I breathed.

"No," she croaked. "But I hear them walking away."

I looked around. Clothes were hanging everywhere. Jackets and things. "We're probably in the hallway," I whispered. "Near the side door."

She nodded, gently pushing the door open. My heart pounded and my skin felt hotter than it should. She glanced around and we stepped into a cozy living room. Plaid couches, well-worn, were illuminated by a couple of a candles on a coffee table. Silent, I shut the door behind us. Clem tiptoed toward another shut door, following the sound of the voices. I hung back.

"What are they saying?" I whispered.

She closed the door, tiptoeing back to me. "They still think we're _with _someone."

"We are," I shrugged. "Christa."

"No, someone else." She listened hard. "C...Carver."

A chill shot down my spine. _Carver. Not exactly a common name. First or last? _I shook these thoughts off, unsure why they made me so uneasy. "I don't know what their obsession is with that guy but I don't like it. We _need_ to get this stuff, and whatever else we can find, and get the hell _out_ of here."

"You're right, you're right," she placated, looking around. "Let's check this room and then go upstairs."

The living room was bare, obviously not a place this group spent much time. Seemed ironic, but made sense when I realized that these people seemed pretty on edge. I doubt they ever found time to kick back on a sofa. We checked the adjacent room. There wasn't much except for a large bed, stripped to the mattress, and a desk. This room, like the previous, was dimly lit by candles. I shut the door behind us, looking at the rug beneath my shoes, scuffed almost down to nothing. Despite the rain, and the winter chill, I felt a dangerous warmth flood me. Like this could be a home. A good one. If not for the way things were.

I'd spent the years since the world ended scavenging. Retaining life by taking things that weren't mine to start with. Don't get me wrong, it's not like my morality said my way of life was sinful. I just couldn't help thinking about the people who used to live in the places I'd ravaged. Real people, with real families and real jobs and real dreams. I didn't care what they were or wanted to be. I just wanted to know how they lived.

I looked at the rug again, saw the most wear in the spot by the door and imagined a man walking through it every day to sit at this desk and read his mail, comforted by the photos of fish he'd caught, the painting of the duck preening itself. The faded yellow wallpaper. I imagined the ripped seam on the red cushion of his chair was caused by that pocket of his jeans always being the one that had something in it. A wallet. A pocketknife.

I breathed in the air that man breathed. Maybe his wife breathed it, too. Or his mother. Or his kids.

I looked at Clem, looking at the duck again. I liked to think she felt what I felt, that I had been that fortunate to find someone who both hated and accepted everything the way I hated it and accepted it. It was hard to remember that we were trespassers in a dangerous land. The allure to return to the shed and wait until morning, to pretend we hadn't violated the group's trust so that they might let us stay, was strong. But not strong enough.

"Duck," she whispered, and for a moment I wanted to make a smart-ass remark about stating the obvious, but then I remembered the drawing Clem had carried around in her backpack. Of a man called Kenny, a woman – Katjaa, and a boy – Duck. I figured they must have been people she'd run with, and clearly meant a lot to.

I stepped forward. Clem opened the desk drawer. Not much. She withdrew a gold watch, holding it up to the candlelight. I remained silent, and then she extended it to me. I was surprised, but she held it out. "I know you like to keep things," she whispered, sadly.

She was right. I hung my head, shaking it. "It's all gone now." We'd left all our things back at the camp. Clem had her backpack, her drawings and photos. I'd had my rucksack, full of gear and stupid little oddments, one thing from every house I'd ever been in that wasn't mine. It meant something to me, but like everything, you can't get too attached.

But I pocketed the watch and we pressed on. That's how it goes.


	11. Sarah

**Chapter 10 - Sarah**

The stairs creaked as we ascended to the second floor. Again I was grateful for the rain. There were three rooms. We tried the one on the furthest left first. Another bedroom. Clem searched drawers again. I spotted something on the nightstand. A roll of gauze. Score one for the dream team. Clem came to my side.

"Not exactly bandages, but they should help stop the bleeding."

"Needle and alcohol," I whispered, trying to keep us on track.

We went through the rest of the room quickly, finding nothing. Clem paused at a board game spread upon a low table. _Risk. _I thought it fitting. I pocketed one of the little wooden characters and we exited back into the hall. Room number two was a bathroom, completely dark save for the occasional flash of lightning. The rain was pounding now, and despite that it masked our sounds, it also masked our captors.' The kitchen was right beneath us, but I still couldn't hear them.

Clem opened the mirror cabinet above the sink and found a needle. Dream team: 2. Captors: 0.

"It's clean," she whispered.

"We still need something to keep it from getting infected." I pushed back the shower curtains. Nothing. Clem opened a cupboard. Nothing.

"They have to have their medical supplies around here somewhere," she muttered. Suddenly, the doorknob creaked. We froze, eyes widened at each other. Fear gripped my spine. I gestured to the cupboard. Clem slipped inside and I stepped into the shower, peeking out from behind the curtain. The door creaked open. _Rebecca. _

She paced to the sink, washing her face in the water. "Just need to have this baby..." she muttered. "Oh, God. Let it be okay and... let it be...his."

My brow furrowed. Rebecca lingered a moment, drying her face and staring at herself in the mirror. In the darkness of the room, barely illuminated even by the cracks of lightning, she could have been an apparition. Finally, she left and the door shut behind her. Slowly I stepped out of the shower and rapped gently on the cupboard door. Clementine emerged and we went to the bathroom door. The hallway was clear again but we hurried to the room opposite. Last one. Clem put her hand on the knob, opening it slightly, and gasping.

"What?" I whispered, affrighted. She ignored me, putting a finger to her lips and shushing someone within. _Fuck, _I cursed. _Sarah_.

"You're not supposed to be in here," that small, mousy voice emerged. I couldn't see anything over Clem's shoulder and was growing uneasy standing here at the top of the stairs. Clem opened the door wider, and I wanted to pull her away, say _what the hell are you doing!_ But I didn't. Fuck. Clusterfuckingfuck.

"Hi. Can you help us?" _AGH! What the fuck!_ I followed Clem into the room, trying not to panic, instead staring Sarah down. Clem was gonna be nice, be diplomatic. I was prepared to gag this girl if she didn't shut the hell up. Sarah didn't seem too alarmed, though. She was sitting on her bed, a book propped open against her pillow. The room was neat, there were even a few toys scattered around. I felt a pang of something like jealously and stifled it.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," Sarah enjoined. "My dad can't know."

"What are you reading?" Clem asked, trying to change the subject.

"A book." Was she stupid or just obstinate?

"What book?" Clem pushed. She had the patience of a saint. "I like books."

"It's called The Gurrgles. It's about trans-dimensional body snatchers." _Uh...huh._

"Cool," Clem replied.

"What happened to you?" Sarah eyed our wounds.

"We were attacked by a dog," I spoke, my voice deeper and meaner than I wanted it to be.

"Sounds scary," the girl replied, unshaken. "I bet it hurts."

"We could die if we don't take care of it," I replied seriously. "Do you understand that?" Clem put a steadying hand on my arm, stepping forward.

"We just need something to clean it with," she begged. "I bet it would be with the rest of your medical supplies."

"Yeah, it is." Sarah paused, then smiled. "I'll help you."

"Good," Clem didn't smile. We were losing energy fast.

"I'm Sarah." I'd forgotten that she hadn't introduced herself and that I only knew her name because I heard Carlos yell at her earlier. Sarah. I didn't add her to the shit list. _Carlos_ was still a maybe.

"I'm Clementine. This is Scout."

"We're friends," Sarah replied, getting to her feet. She was significantly taller than we were, but it didn't help her look more capable. I stepped back, about to say something sarcastic. "Right? We can all be best friends. I haven't met girls my age since way before. It's hard to be the only girl, you know? Rebecca is okay, but she's old. And that's it. And if her baby is a girl, it'll be _forever_ before she's old enough to, like, be my friend. And then _I'll _be super old."

I sighed. She was a talker.

"Yes, we're friends," Clem appeased her. I stared at her, trying not to look incredulous, and again feeling that unfamiliar pang of jealousy.

"Promise? It's important. Friends have to trust each other no matter what." She just wouldn't quit.

"We don't have time for this-" I started.

"Yes, we promise," Clem interrupted.

"Me, too. Friends." Sarah extended her... pinky. Clem took it. "A pinky swear is forever." She smiled. "I'll see if I can find the stuff my dad uses when I get a cut. Lemme look around." She went to a nightstand drawer and withdrew a bottle of peroxide.

"That'll work," Clem pocketed it.

"You can't do it here, though. Someone will find you."

"Not if you keep your mouth shut," I threatened.

"Don't worry, we won't," Clem softened my blow. "Thanks, Sarah."

None too soon, we left.


	12. Stitches

**Chapter 11 - Stitches**

Back at the shed, we laid our supplies out on the table. Adrenaline pumping, we didn't hesitate. I removed my shirt, which was drenched with the rain, and Clem rolled up her sleeve, laying her afflicted arm on the table. I stepped up next to her, unscrewing the lid of the peroxide.

"This is gonna suck." She was already breathing hard when she said it.

"Take your hat off," I instructed. "Roll it up and bite down on it." She obeyed. "Ready?"

"As ready as I'm gonna get," she muttered around the dirty fabric.

Carefully I tipped the bottle, pouring a generous amount on her wound. She gasped, convulsing so wildly I nearly dropped the bottle. She bit hard on the hat and the cut foamed white as the bacteria inside withered and died. I reached for the needle, bit off a length of the fishing line, and threaded it through. I breathed in, out, in, out, doing my best to steady my hand despite the numbness, which was dissipating, fortunately. Then, I pierced the skin. Clem shuddered, moaning against the gag, and I leaned against her, supporting her faltering weight. I pulled the needle through the other side of the wound and we began again. And again, until five messy but acceptable stitches had been formed. I leaned down and bit the line, tying it off. Clem dropped the gag.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah." She was a fighter, alright. Already on the rebound. We wrapped her arm in bandages and pulled her sleeve back down.

"Your turn."

I swallowed, nodding once. Clem collected our haphazard first aid kit and sat cross-legged on the floor. Gingerly I laid on my stomach in front of her, giving her easy and full access to the gash across my shoulder. "What does it look like?" I breathed, sucking in my gut to keep the floor from splintering my skin.

"Like mine. Except you have a smaller cut here," she traced it with her finger.

"Does it need stitches, too?"

"I don't think so. Just the big one."

"You know how, right?" I knew she did. I was just talking for me, now. I felt scared. Scared of the pain. I don't know why. It had to be done.

"Christa showed me. I can do it."

"Do it quick. Please."

"You want my hat?"

"Sure."

I heard her unscrew the cap of the peroxide bottle and squeezed my eyes shut, tightening my jaw around the hat, tasting blood. Mine? Hers? When the alcohol hit the wound I saw stars. I could feel the tingling as it foamed and the air cooled it pleasantly after, but the worst was coming. As expertly as I had done (which was not very) Clem threaded the needle through my skin, pulling the flesh closed. I opened my eyes and let the hat fall from my mouth, breathing slowly.

"I'm through," she stood, helping me up. "Does it feel okay?"

"Yeah." _No. Fuck_. "Thanks."

"Oh, no," she muttered, looking at the gauze. "How are we gonna bandage it? There's not enough to go all the way around your shoulder. I flexed the muscle, cringing.

"I saw some duct tape in here earlier. We can make a pad with the gauze, tape it down. In the tackle box, I think."

Clem nodded and paced over, setting the peroxide on the desk and bending down. Just as she was about to reach in, a walker beat her to it, grabbing her ankle through our hole in the wall.

"Shit!" I shouted as she was dragged down. I grabbed a brick and chucked it. She scrambled free as it struck the walker in the head, but he snaked through the hole and tackled her again. I pushed it off. Clem stood, grabbing a rake and shoving it into the walker's chest. He fell back against the mounted anchor, the tip of which pushed right through its rotted core, trapping it. I grabbed the hammer and approached, raising it high and driving it into the walker's soft skull, again and again. Blood spattered across my bare chest and face until finally, it stopped moving.

"What the-"

I looked over my shoulder, still gripping the gut-covered hammer. Luke stood at the shed doors, Alvin and Pete behind him, flabbergasted. I breathed hard, in a daze.

"How the hell did it get in here," Luke muttered to Pete.

"Little girls' are tough as nails," Pete mused. His unwavering calm was beginning to grate on my patience. Growling, I pivoted wildly, throwing the hammer at their feet.

"Are you happy?" I shouted. "We're _still_ not bitten."

"You left us out here to _die_," Clementine stepped forward.

"You patched yourself up?" Luke inquired, seemingly impressed.

Nick, the trigger-happy shooter, appeared over Luke's shoulder. "Where did you get that stuff?"

"Did they steal from us?" That was Rebecca.

"This doesn't change a thing," Pete stepped between us and the increasingly angry crowd. "They haven't done anything to us."

"Says the man _not_ carrying a baby," Rebecca argued.

"Enough already."

"We did," Clem piped up, silencing them. "We took things and we're sorry. Really."

"And you think you can trust them!?" Rebecca exclaimed.

"Goddammit," Pete groused. "Don't even start. Any of you would have done the same if you were half as tough as these little girls. So just save it." I guess it was good enough for them, because they quit arguing.

"Bring them in," Carlos said, "and I'll take a look at their wounds." He turned to the house, and the group followed, leaving Luke to escort us inside.


	13. Carlos

**Chapter 12 - Carlos**

Carlos remained silent while he looked over our best attempt at patching ourselves up. Thankfully, we had done well enough that he didn't need to remove the stitches, but he did re-bandage Clem's arm and found more bandages for my shoulder. I lifted my arm as he wrapped them around my chest and back, securing them with safety pins.

"Here," he turned me around and handed me a clean t-shirt. It was beige with a red collar and sleeves, emblazoned with the pawprint logo of some local sports team. I imagined it meant nothing to Carlos, but something to the people that used to live here. I accepted it warily, slipping it over my chest, followed by the offered gray sweater. Clem opted to keep her clothes, and they sat near the fireplace in the living room, drying out on the hearth.

Dressed, I glanced at Luke. He was silent, pacing again. And Nick, leaning against the wall, chewing on a thumbnail. His eyes were cast downward toward the kitchen table, where the rifle rested.

"How are we lookin'?" Luke asked the doctor.

"Their suturing skills need some work, but otherwise I'd say they should be fine," he assessed.

"So it wasn't a lurker bite?"

My gaze hardened. How many times would we have to answer that dumb question?

"If it was, the fever would have already set in and their temperatures would be through the roof."

Seemingly put _off_ by what should have been good news, Nick left the room. Luke scowled and trailed after him. Carlos went to wash his hands in the sink. I stood next to Clem as she flexed her arm. We were in dire straits, but I could tell she was feeling better, at least physically.

"I wish you wouldn't have done what you did," Carlos spoke, his voice low and dangerous. I chose to remain silent, beyond done talking with these people.

"We were hurt," Clem defended. "And you weren't helping."

"Because we considered you a threat. Which you were. Maybe you still are."

"We're not," she assured him.

"We put you in that shed out of concern for the safety of our loved ones." He was growing angrier now. He scrubbed his hands with more intensity, and past the point of a normal hand-washing, lost in that anger. I'd seen that before. Dangerous. "Then you escaped and persuaded _my_ daughter to steal from us. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt," he straightened up, shaking his hands dry, "but there are a few things you need to know about my daughter."

"Okay."

"She isn't like you," he faced us. _Damn straight, _I thought. _Fuckin' pansy. _"You may not get that initially, but once you're around her for a while you'll understand. If she knew how bad the world is, what it's really like out there, she would... cease to function. She's my little girl. She's all I have left and I would ask that you two stay away from her." _Happy to_.

"She needs to grow up sometime," Clem replied honestly.

"You do NOT know what she needs!" Carlos shouted suddenly, making Clem flinch and my eyes narrow. The wind howled outside, and though the rain had stopped, it pounded the thin glass of the kitchen window with the same vigor as before. "Rebecca was worried you might be working with someone else. That your being here was no coincidence. I guess we'll find out," he paced toward the kitchen door, "but one thing I know for sure – you are not to be trusted." He passed us, pausing again at the door with his hand on the smooth wood.

"Stay away from my daughter."

As he departed, Luke reappeared with two bowls of hot cereal. "Hey, uh, brought you some food if you're hungry."

_Duh._


	14. Dinner Conversations

**Chapter 13 – Dinner Conversations**

We ate in relative silence. Luke talked, nervously, trying to fill those awkward spaces between spaces. I tried to imagine him in the old world, being just as awkward. He would ask questions, Clem sometimes answered. I scarfed the food, completely disinterested in anything else.

When I was done I put my head down on the table, watching Luke and Clem. After a few minutes the door opened and Nick passed through. He glared in our direction and I raised my head, daring him to say something. With a full belly, I was growing overconfident in my strength. I bristled when he approached Clem, who ignored him.

"Hey, look," he began, not to be shaken. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry for... well.. for being a dick out there."

Clem let her spoon drop, still not looking at him.

"I got kinda aggro and that was definitely not cool."

My friend looked at me sideways. I shook my head and let it drop back into my arms, unwilling to give.

"Nick's been known to go off every once in a while. Don't hold it against him," Luke entreated, appealing to Clem for the guy's forgiveness.

"You were just protecting your friends. We get it." I expected her to say something along those lines and wasn't disappointed. I knew that by staying silent I was allowing Clem to speak for the both of us, and it was a fair trade, given that I, too, was prone to flying off the handle.

"I didn't mean to be so harsh," Nick scratched his head. "It's just... we had a bad experience once."

"We've all had bad experiences," Clem reminded him. Nick, stricken, took the open seat next to Clem.

"Nick lost his mom," Luke explained. "We took care of someone who'd gotten bit. We thought we could control it but we couldn't. And then she turned, and his mom was standing right there and she got attacked. There was nothing we could do about it."

"Anyway," Nick stood. "Hope you understand."

"We do. Yeah."

Nick smiled and left the room. Clem returned to her food and Luke, predictably, returned to his talking. "So... since you're pretty much on your own, what's your plan?" Clem looked at me. _I got nothing. _

"We're thinking about moving on," she shrugged.

"Well, you're welcome to stay here if you want. You can let yourselves heal up and take some time to sort things out."

"Do you think everyone else will be okay with it?"

I raised my head, meeting Clem's irritatingly hopeful gaze. _No_, I wanted to say. No. We had already established these folks were in some kind of shit, shit we didn't want to be involved in. Nobody had said a word about this Carver guy but I didn't like the sound of him. No, things weren't right. This wasn't permanent, it couldn't be. For the first time, I missed Christa's depressive ranting. And felt sick to my stomach, reminded of the reality we had been drawn into.

"They'll just have to deal with it," Luke shrugged. There it was again. The pang.

"So... what happened to your parents? If you don't mind me asking. Or are you two related?"

I looked at Clem. I'd never given her parents much thought. It was the first time Luke had asked a question I was genuinely interested to hear the answer to. But then, I suppose the question was for me, too.

"I mean I assume what happened to them is what happened to everyone's parents. You two are just so young... didn't think you could've made it on your own for so long, but maybe you did. Are you... cousins?" I snorted softly, finding it funny that even in this day and age people were still treading lightly around the race issue.

"No," Clem replied. "My parents... they... died."

"I lost my folks, too," Luke empathized. "Hey, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"My parents went on vacation and left me with a babysitter and they never came back. We went to Savannah to find them, but they were already dead."

"I'm sorry."

"This man found me and took care of me. We met up with other survivors and we all tried to make it. But it didn't work. His name was Lee. He taught me how to survive. He taught me how to shoot a gun."

"What happened to him?"

"I killed him. He got bitten, protecting me. I had to kill him before he turned. I had to." She faltered, and the silence made the darkness throb. I stared at the candle, my eyes burning. "Scout and I have been together for... I guess... about a year."

Pete walked in, breaking the reverie. I was grateful, again, for his presence. "I hate to interrupt, but I'm out there standing watch and I can't help but notice this place is lit a goddamn beacon in the middle of the woods."

"Yeah, it's time to turn in, anyways," Luke agreed, ironically glad to change the subject he put us on. I looked at Clem, half her food untouched.

"Get your winks while you can because we're goin' fishin' at first light," Pete blew out the candles on the table. "A couple of fresh brookies for dinner? Mmm. Wouldn't that be nice."

Luke rose and departed. Pete watched him go then turned to us, offering a smile that made me think he knew, somehow, what we were talking about and that we'd rather not have been. Clem smiled, and I relaxed some as she finished eating her meal.

Well, almost finished.

Rebecca came in. I resolved to find a lower-traffic area to eat any future meals.

"Oh. You're still here." She didn't sound the least bit surprised. Shit list. She went to the sink to wash her hands. "I wouldn't get comfortable if I were you two."

"Luke invited us to stay," Clem tested. I raised my head again as Rebecca approached.

"Good for him. But that's not how things work around here. We make decisions as a group. And you're wearing out your welcome. You got what you came here for. Now _go_." Then she left, disappearing through the swinging kitchen door.


	15. Fishing

**Chapter 14 - Fishing**

"Scout? Are you awake?"

I pulled my cheek away from the carpet and rolled to my back. I could barely make out the outline of Clementine's silhouette in the pitch darkness of the living room. She laid on the couch, me beside her on the floor, one hand resting on the crest of her baseball cap. "Yes."

"How's your shoulder?"

I exhaled deeply, folding my hands upon my stomach. "Could be worse. How's your arm?"

"Could be worse," she echoed, and I knew she was grateful to feed off of my nonchalance. Hell, I was surprised I could _be _so nonchalant. My head was swimming. The possibility of a new, safe haven was enticing, but the shadow of these peoples' fear still ate at me. The man called _Carver_ had become like an enigma, a hazy silhouette in the darkness. I realized I knew not why _I_ should fear him – after all, whatever shit these folks were in was none of mine – and so my fear had mostly subsided into macabre fascination. My stomach churned, turning buried secrets over in my chest and making me heavy and sick inside.

"Clem?" I whispered, wanting to tell her something. Anything. Receiving no reply other than soft, unlabored breathing. I sighed, rolling back to my side and letting sleep drag me down.

The next morning, Pete got us up bright and early. He woke Clem first and I was up like a shot when I heard her voice, surprised that despite fitful sleep I rested a full night. Couldn't remember the last time that happened. The cabin was quiet as we took our leave through the back door, a rifle slung over Pete's shoulder, Clem still clutching her bandaged arm and mine still in a sling. Not sure what help I could be on a fishing expedition but I didn't much relish the idea of separating from Clem for any length of time.

Outside betrayed none of the foggy, rainy horror of the previous night. The sun was cresting over the pines and cast a sweet warmth over the woods. Birds sang to spite the brave, shitty new world we all lived in. The dirt was soft beneath my trainers, but I had no thoughts about running now. For some reason, I was at peace.

"So how you holdin' up?" Pete opened the conversation, his voice pleasant and gravelly. "Heard you got an earful from Rebecca last night. Once she gets goin' there's no bringing her back." He sounded pretty cheery about it. The guy was hard to phase. I decided to let Clem answer.

"What's her problem?" Clem scowled, making me grin into my collar.

"Ehhh... she's got a lot on her mind lately," he comforted, looking over his shoulder at us and stepping lithely over an old hunk of front door laid as a bridge over a stream. The path must have been part of Pete's daily ritual: he followed it with the ease of one well-traveled and unafraid. "Bringing a baby into a world like this..." Clem skipped forward to catch up. I huffed, following suit and stepping up to Pete's opposite side.

"How far are these fish traps?" she asked. I was pleased, at least, to hear some suspicion in her voice. She didn't yet trust this lot, either.

"It ain't much further," Pete assured, smiling at Clem, then at me. But I wasn't looking at Pete. I was looking at his gun. He noticed. "Anyone teach you two how to shoot? And by that I mean taught proper. Any idiot with a finger can shoot."

I thought of Nick. Nick was an idiot with a finger. Though he couldn't shoot for shit. Thank goodness.

"My friend Lee taught _me_," Clem answered humbly, looking curiously at me. I swallowed, remembering that I hadn't told Clem much about my life. Not really.

"That's good. How about you, Scout?"

_Just remember, if you're gonna point a gun at somebody, you gotta already be at terms with that person ceasing to exist, because when you point a gun at somebody, you're telling them that their life is yours._

"Scout?"

Startled, I caught my breath and nodded to answer Pete's question. I didn't like guns. But yes, I could use one.

We approached a bent section of barbed wire fencing and stepped through. "Nick was about your age when I first took him hunting. Came across this beautiful thirteen-point buck, just standing there on the ridgeline. Boy takes the rifle," Pete raised his own and rested it against his shoulder, "he lines up the shot just like I taught him, and then I hear him start whining." He sighed, lowering the gun and looking at us. "He turns to me and he says, '_I can't do it. I can't shoot it, Uncle Pete. Please don't make me shoot it._'"

I looked at Clem. The old sadness that only I recognized in her crawled back into her features, but instead of carving out a niche there it fled, almost as quickly as it had come, replaced with a shy shrug of her shoulders and a soft smile for Pete. He smiled, too, and there was something so genuine about it I almost forgot about my problems with this place.

Almost.

"Hey!" someone shouted. Speak of the devil. We turned back toward the path. Nick ran up, out of breath, sweater rumpled and hair askew beneath his trucker hat. "Why didn't you wait?"

"You want us standing around while you piss on a tree?" Pete scolded. "You know where the river is, boy."

I raised a brow. Pete's sudden change of demeanor whenever Nick was around tended to assure me he was at least in control of the kid, but Nick was still a loose cannon. I didn't even like him standing this close to me, let alone this close to me with a rifle in his hands.

"Anyway," Pete softened, turning back to us and resuming our walk. "I grabbed the gun out of his hands before the big buck runs off when _bang!_ The gun fires. Boy nearly gut-shot me! And of course, the buck gets away." I couldn't tell which Pete was more disappointed about.

Nick's fury was palpable. "What are you going and telling them this shit for?" he interrupted.

"'Cause you almost blew their faces off yesterday!" Pete chortled. "Seems relevant. Trying to let them know it's nothing personal with you." I liked Pete.

"Why you always giving me a hard time?"

"Because you're always giving everyone else a hard time!"

"I apologized already," Nick defended. "They accepted it."

"Okay, well, I didn't know that," Pete rescinded.

"You're always trying to embarrass me."

"You're doing a good enough job of that on your own!"

Nick shook his head and pushed past Pete, bumping him on the shoulder.

"Leaving us again," Pete chided.

"I know where the fuckin' river is," Nick shot back, disappearing down the path. Pete watched him go, looking forlorn. Clem and I exchanged awkwardly silent glances, then stared at Pete.

"So anyway, I found that buck later that season." I could have laughed in my awe of this man and how easy it was for him to flip that switch; to go from a heady confrontation with his armed nephew to telling two stranger kids a never-ending story about that same idiot. "Shot it right through the neck. Brought it up to my sister's figurin' she'd want to freeze some of the meat. Nick didn't speak to me for weeks." Pete sighed. "Sometimes you gotta play a role."

I considered this, and suddenly Pete had more of my attention.

"Even if it means people you love hate you for it," he finished.

"He doesn't hate you," Clem comforted. I shook my head lightly. She was sold.

"Nick's father wasn't there much, and he was a piece of shit when he was. So it fell to me to keep him in line, raise him right. Meant I couldn't just be _nice Uncle Pete_."

We didn't have much time to dwell on that point before Nick started yelling. We hurried down the path toward the river. Nick was at the edge of the treeline, rifle up at his waist, moving slow.

"Nick!" Pete shouted, rushing to his side. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph..."

I swallowed. Just before us on the bank laid the body of a man, his left arm caked in a pool of fresh red blood, legs splayed out like a shot animal. Clem nudged me. To the right, down amidst the cattails, two more bodies lay contorted. A fourth was propped against a boulder. Pete pushed past us and leaned over the first, prodding him with the business end of his rifle. I scanned the horizon.

"Full of holes," he remarked edgily.

"Who do you think did this?" Clem stepped forward.

"Not sure yet. But it ain't your average gang of thugs, that much I know."

Nick shook his head. "Think about it, you're Carver, what do you do?"

A chill ran down my spine. I had been slowly, steadily working on turning that fear/fascination into fascination/resolute acceptance of the enigma _Carver_, and now Nick had made him once again very real.

"Who's Carver?" I demanded fruitlessly, stepping in front of Clem. Nick and Pete stared at each other.

"Check those guys there," Pete ordered, changing the subject. I tensed, looking over my shoulder at Clementine. She seemed apologetic, maybe thinking I was right and we should have left, but we were stuck now. "Be careful!" Pete called after Nick. "Some of 'em might still be moving. Clem, Scout, see if you can find anything else."

"Like what?" I retorted.

"Something that can tell us who did this."

I shook my head, stepping away from Pete and up to the nearest body, Clem at my side. I didn't argue with Pete because despite my apprehension I _was _curious, and I would have made the same call. Always better to be sure there's nothing useful around. I still needed a knife. Clem knelt down while I scanned the treeline. Not even crows around now. These guys hadn't been here very long.

"This one's shot, too," Clem offered, trying to be helpful. I leaned over the body, unzipping his sweatshirt and checking his pockets. Nothing.

"Through the head?" Pete asked.

"Yeah," she replied. I stared at the wound. Perfect shot, right between the eyebrows and a little low on the forehead.

"Check the rest. And look for ammo. We're runnin' low."

I could appreciate Pete's utilitarian attitude in the face of imminent danger, but I still didn't like anything about this. Still, Clem and I straightened up, intent on doing what we could.

"There are more out there," she gestured to the opposite bank of the river.

"This wasn't no rinky-dink pissing match," Pete mused, standing.

"What was it, then?" Nick pressed.

"_FUBAR_," Pete muttered, heading for the sandbar in the middle of the river. I squinted against the brightening sun.

"Where are you going?" Nick demanded, desperation creeping into his voice. "We need to get the fuck out of here."

"Gotta check the rest."

"What? Why?" I stared at Nick, then at Pete, both towering over us.

"Calm down and think about it, son!"

"Calm down!? We gotta get outta here now!"

"Jesus Christ," Pete turned back toward us, waist deep in the water. "Get a hold of yourself."

"Nick's right," Clem spoke up, "this doesn't look good." And God forbid _Nick_ be the voice of reason but I was having trouble picking a side here. Still, Pete had done more to least _attempt_ earning my trust, so I looked to him.

"No it don't," Pete conceded that point, "but one of these folks might still be alive, and they might just be inclined to tell us who did this. We gotta do this now. So we stay, keep searching these."

I followed him across the river, leaping atop a boulder and landing roughly on the other side.

"This a dumb idea," Nick cowered, his rifle nervously skirting the treeline.

"You know, Nick, I don't like this, either, but sooner or later you're gonna have to realize a simple truth."

"What, that you're an asshole?"

"That nobody in this world is ever gonna give a goddamn whether you like something or not! You gotta grow up, son."

Nick shook his head. "Whatever," he mumbled, turning away and pacing off to the far end of his bank. Pete sighed, meeting my eyes for a moment. I felt my respect for him grow, felt the weight on his shoulders and how he was trying his hardest to make something work that maybe just couldn't.

"Come on, Clem, there's one over here," I nodded my head toward the body a few yards away and we paced over. The thing was still flailing, rooted to the ground by what looked like a spear. I thought this an unusual choice of weaponry, but guns and ammo were getting harder to come by these days.

"You two keep a lookout on that treeline. Whoever did this might still be out there."

"At some point you guys are gonna have to trust us," Clem replied in a moment of clarity.

"Hell, I trust you," Pete assured. "Everybody ain't there yet. Give it time. And keep your heads on straight."

"Tell your people to do the same," I put in.

"You always so agreeable?" Pete grinned.

"No," I put in.

Pete chuckled. "Good. You'll fit right in with this outfit." Pete stared down at the moaning walker. "Shot to pieces." Without hesitating he placed his boot on the creature's chest, yanked the spear free, and shoved the tip into the brain. Or whatever was left of the brain. A gray mucus dripped from the wound, but the walker was still. Pete stepped off, and the body seemed to deflate. I wrapped my fingers around the staff, yanking the spear free and turning its point toward the sky. Never used a spear. But I felt less naked now with at least some kind of weapon at my side.

"Dammit," Pete muttered. "More on that side. You two check out these ones. See if there's anything on them that will tell us who they were."

Clem and I split up. I searched through the reeds, looking for footprints, but the water level had risen, then fallen, and the tracks were so blurry and run over that I couldn't tell much other than the obvious: there had been a gunfight, and it had clearly not ended well. It struck me that some of the dead may have been the aggressors, and some the defenders.

"Scout," I heard Clem whisper.

I hurried to her side. She stood near yet another body, this one rolled to his side, away from us. Just out of his reach lay a backpack. A purple backpack. _Clem's_ purple backpack. Slowly she approached it, stepping to the body's other side. I bent my knees and followed, lowering the point of the staff into the thing's face.

Suddenly the man's eyes flickered open and he gave a pained, miserable cough, making both of us gasp. Clem froze, still hovering over her backpack. I racked my brain, and remembered the night we were separated from Christa. His face. My head pounded, recalling the impact of the boulders that had bounced Clem and I down the river like ping-pong balls. His face was familiar. The thugs in the woods. He was one of them.

"Clem-" I started. "He was in the woods. With Christa."

"What happened to her?" Clem spoke. "The woman we were with? Please. Tell me. Tell me!"

"Wa...water..." the man croaked, his eyes already looking like the dead's. He reached weakly for the backpack. A bottle of water hung between the open flaps. Surprising even me, Clem stood, zipping the bag shut and slinging it over her back.

"Augh!" Pete yelled, breaking the silence. Clem and I pivoted, watching him fire a round into the head of a legless walker and buckle at the waist, breathing hard.

"Pete!" Nick yelled, even further from us on the opposite bank.

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Pete shouted hoarsely. "Just lost my footing." He straightened up. I squinted, but I didn't have to see the wound for my suspicions to be confirmed. Pete confirmed them for us. "Dammit... god_dammit_!" He was bit.

"Lurkers!" Nick shouted, firing off a round.

"I'm out of ammo!" Pete returned, raising his gun futilely.

"Come this way!"

"Dammit!" Pete swore again. "You get your asses over here, all of you!"

"I'll cover you!" Nick begged again, still firing.

I'll admit, despite that Pete was now a time bomb, I still favored him over Nick, the perpetual loose cannon. But I wasn't surprised when Clem took off for Nick, dashing across the water and joining him on the opposite bank. Trouble was, I had simultaneously turned to run toward Pete, smashing the end of my spear into an oncoming lurker to arrive at his side. I expected Clem to be _right_ there, like always. But when I looked up and saw her on the opposite bank, I considered running back, but Nick was already dragging her away, to an uncertain safety.

_We have to go_. I barely heard Pete now, barely felt his hand grab my arm and haul me away into the woods.

**A/N: Thanks for reading, guys. I got this Episode posted quick because nothing really went on except for introducing you all to Scout's character. The rest was 98% Telltale's material. Episode 2 chapters will be up soon and we'll go more in depth. **

**3 Saint**


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